Author's note: Sincere apologies for not updating in a month! It is inexcusable and I totally deserve your complaints and frowns, and I don't know how many of you're still reading. But if you have been waiting, I'm sorry, really sorry for my egregious behaviour. Anyhow, I should tell you that some subtle changes in formatting have been made in the previous chapters, along with rectification of mistakes that would have had me clashing with canon (thank you to my beta for pointing them out).

Beta'd by the wondrous BellatrixTheStar. This chapter looked enormously different before she went over it and suggested some changes. It has taken us almost a week, two readings, and over a hundred edits to finally make it presentable and worthy of your time. So, she deserves as much credit as me (if not a little more). Thank you!

OOOOO

The ring was precious to the Tisroc.

An invaluable possession that had breached his heart, subsiding, on uncountable occasions, the vile desires that his foolish ministers and sons evoked in him.

Concerning the item, many had scoffed at him when they were certain he could not hear, dared to whisper jeers behind his back when he was in the near vicinity, and grumbled, quietly under their breath, insults when his attention was elsewhere. And he, out of pure ill-will and spite, had made them suffer the extreme but well-deserved consequences of their rogue actions, allowing slow and obscene deaths for the lowly men in his court and palace, and quick and painless deaths at the gallows to the more valued ministers and men of venerability. Of course, his people saw this as crude and scandalous, though they never could muster enough will to admit it to even their closest kins. Some saw him as a foul and immoral soul. But how could they understand the sheer import of the ring they had mocked him for wearing? The profound glee its mere sight gave his heart? Was it not right, ethically, that he defended his honour and dignity? Was it not right that he quenched the vindictive fire their jests had kindled in him?

Inwardly, he sighed.

It wasn't as if he'd taken any pleasure in their deaths. In fact, he was a tender-hearted man, gentle and patient.

And his family (not his sons, whom he felt ashamed to call his own blood), held a special place in his heart. Yes, he had killed his older brothers. Yes, he had pushed his father—the Tisroc before him—off a cliff. But even the great poets and the gods knew that power never came without a cost. He had learnt that from his mother, a beautiful, wondrous woman with a powerful and daring charisma. And she was the woman whose death had butchered his tender heart and slaughtered his childhood. It was her ring that he wore now.

The ring was exquisitely forged. Its thick and weighty band was made purely out of gold bought from the most distant nations in the north-east. The band was rather plain, but as the proverbs said, sobriety and simplicity were the very pillars of beauty. However, the goldsmiths had not entirely lacked creativity and skill in imaginative art. A pair of dark-gold laurel leaves were perched at the gemstone's edges, curling around the bloodstone like protective feathers, careful lines carved into their surface, depicting long-forgotten litanies to the glorious name of Tash. The gemstone was what made the ring so excellent and other-worldly. The stone was crimson red, the ruby found and sold by a merchant travelling in the southern Calormen. It had been carved into a rose, each petal clear and distinct from its neighbour. One could almost imagine the rose bloom when light fell onto it.

It was a cherished treasure Sherzeeb would not let go even in death.

Presently, he began sliding it back and forth on his middle finger again, letting the motion calm him. He leant back heavily in his chair and pretended to listen to the babbling Tarkan in front of him.

"It is the accursed barbarian king, O Great Tisroc (may you live forever), the one with enough crudity to so vilely end a blooming life!" the Tarkan exclaimed.

The words finally caught Sherzeeb's attention, his ears perking up as he sat up attentively. He blinked at the Tarkan in front of him.

Many admired Serkan's spirit, foul as it might be. He was at the peak of his youth, a full-grown man with colossal strength, and enough sagacity to outwit his oldest and shrewdest ministers. He was a steadfast warrior and soldier, and even Sherzeeb, the Tisroc, the most revered man in the entirety of Calormen, had heard some of the tales about Serkan's bravery and prowess in battle. But still, Sherzeeb doubted any of his admirers knew the whole truth of his past and the deeds he had committed. Some of Serkan's doings surpassed even the darkest of crimes. Sherzeeb would call him a monster sometimes. The name was ominously fitting. He only lacked a set of venomous teeth and the tongue of a serpent. In all reality, Sherzeeb reflected thoughtfully, he might really possess the latter.

"O Tisroc (may you live forever), dare I to ask, do you hear your loyal servant's humble pleadings? In all reverence, my Great Lord, I, who is ever-fearful and a hearty admirer of your might and wrath, must gently implore thee, yes, I must, to hearken, hearken!" suddenly said Serkan, grabbing Sherzeeb's attention again. This time, he paid him heed as Serkan continued, "For the immature boy, a king he calls himself, has dishonoured your name, O Tisroc (may you live forever)! In his act of vileness, he has killed a life that had not even fully ripened yet! And in his endeavour to not let suspicion rise, he killed another innocent guard!"

"Desist, Serkan! Desist your loquacity! And tell, in a serener volume this time (for it was the poets who had said, 'the one heard best is he who acknowledges the power of silence')," said the Tisroc, "what do you propose and desire, O most steadfast of my servants?"

"Oh, for such cruel atrocity, I beseech thee, O gracious Tisroc, may you live forever, let the despicable king suffer, let him behold Tash's mighty wrath. I beg you, show him no mercy, my Lord, for he deserves none. Slay him, slay him, O Tisroc, grant me this, I beg of you."

Sherzeeb shook his head. "O servant of my greatness," said he, "had you a single ounce of proof against the barbarian king, I would have been tempted to slay him before the sun rises on the next day, much as a cat is to rid of a pesky fly. It is very grievous, O servant of mine, that I cannot grant you your request. But I am determined to not let my country die under the flames of the High King's rage." The Tisroc was firm with his words, and he had not expected to hear more than a whisper of adieu from the Tarkan. However, the Tarkan persisted to pester him even when no words could sway Sherzeeb's decision.

"O Tisroc, may your glorious presence grace and guide us till the end of time," said he in a more respectful and desperate tone, "I have many witnesses to the boy-king's most heinous crime! Surely you cannot deny this is proof enough of the king's atrocious deed! As the poets have so wisely said, 'the words of one may be lies, the words of two may be a conspiracy, but the words of three are truth and no less."

Sherzeeb sighed and leant forward as he tried to make the Tarkan understand the absurdity of his implication. "But how can one testify to that he has not seen? The king who they call Just, may Tash curse his vile form, is considered venerable and not capable of such hideousness, and even inside our borders, his command is irrefutable. He will simply refuse to allow them to see his visage, and therefore identify his person. You cannot accuse him of such crime as if he is no more than a mere stray dog hunting a meal on the street. He is a respected ambassador and the favoured brother of the High King. To act against him is to risk the probability of war. And as the poets have said, 'let yourself not fall so far that you cannot withdraw lest the need arise."

Serkan joined his hands in emphasis and begged, "I beseech you, O Tisroc, may you live forever. Could you not in your greater magnificence and power force him, who is but a mere guest, to see them? Is murder not a crime in the accursed northern lands also? Surely the High King, in his own selfish love for his brother, could not deny the dead justice?" Serkan knelt humbly before the Tisroc. "O merciful Tisroc, grant me this, I beg you. For as the poets have said, 'revenge is sweet to those who can taste it, but to those it is denied, it will be a plague in their minds.'

Sherzeeb sighed, disappointed in his servant. "It is now as if you insist on bothering me. Your claims are not strengthened with proof; the details are menial and insignificant. Moreover, the witnesses are your own servants, paltry dogs that you feed, and thus untrustworthy. Take yourself away, Serkan, your presence has now become irksome."

Serkan was clearly aggravated. He sat on his chair and fidgeted nervously. Then his eyebrows knitted over his eyes and he looked thoughtful for a moment, his eyes meticulously scrutinising him. "Surely," he said in a miserably low voice, "the Tisroc, the greatest in his land, the most triumphant of rulers, cannot be afraid of one who is both his younger and lesser…?"

"You dare, pesky servant? Have you a wish of a slow death?" thundered Sherzeeb. The dog had the audacity to be impertinent with him? But Sherzeeb calmed his nerves. Anger birthed the worst decisions, he reminded himself. It was undeniable that Serkan was useful to him, and with the growing rift between his ministers and him, Serkan, in his loyalty, was indispensable. So, instead of ordering for his head to be cut clean off his body, Sherzeeb said placidly:

"My anger, I will admit its existence in my mind, is for good reason. As I have previously said, he is considered capable of no ill deed by his own people, but the ones daring enough to stand against him know better. The boy, small and vulnerable he may seem in his lithe and lanky body, is capable of much. His dealings in astuteness pass even your skill, Serkan, O most discourteous Tarkan. Even with his lack of experience, he is a man full of wits and wisdom, strengthened by a whole country of talking beasts and unfathomable magic I seek not to touch. It is good that I admit he has bested me before, for the poets have said ever-so-wisely, 'it is sagacious to accept mistakes born from foolishness, for it promises securer tidings in the future.'"

Serkan, courteously, bowed. "Then I shall not be the cause of His Excellence's vexation anymore. Shall I be allowed to leave His Majesty's presence?"

"Quite," the Tisroc said, nodding his head.

And Serkan began retreating, walking backwards, still bowing, barely concealing his upturned lips.

"Be wise in your endeavours, Serkan," Sherzeeb advised when the Tarkan had placed one foot outside the door.

He nodded and then promptly disappeared from the room, leaving only grave apprehension behind. Sherzeeb sighed and stood, rubbing his ring back and forth on his finger, wondering if dinner had been readied by the cooks.

~o~

(Two days later)

"He should have woken by now," Lucy said grimly, brushing back Edmund's dishevelled locks from his face, steeling herself against the extreme pallor of her brother's face, and praying, as ardently as she could.

Dracus leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees, prompting Lucy to look at him. When she turned, Dracus had to quell his own tears rapidly rising to brim in his eyes. Swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, he said, "Demiera is a skilled healer, Queen Lucy." His voice was gentle and full of conviction, yet the queen was not completely reassured, her face reflecting her agitation. He sighed and reached over to squeeze her hand. "Your brother will recover. In time."

Lucy nodded, continuing to brush back her brother's hair soothingly, and then combing it to one side, smiling when the resisting curls fell back onto his forehead. Lucy gave one last loving stroke to her brother's cheek and stood up, gingerly releasing Edmund's hand from hers. She turned back to Dracus, smiling solemnly. "I'll see if I can be of any help to Demiera. You'll stay?"

"Of course, your Majesty." Lucy glared. "Lucy," he amended, smiling sheepishly as he felt some colour rush to his cheeks.

Lucy laughed very softly and turned to leave. After the queen left, closing the door behind her, he pulled his chair closer to Edmund's bedside and leant back. He sat in silence, drumming his fingers on the side of the chair.

Until Edmund suddenly jerked awake.

Dracus was on his feet in only a second's time, a wary hand hovering in front of him, reaching out to his king as he struggled to understand his surroundings, hands already searching for a weapon. Then, abruptly, as Dracus stood frozen with his feet rooted to the floor, Edmund's fevered eyes locked on him, recognition barely visible through the cloud of confusion and fear. The king's shoulders were trembling slightly, his entire body quaking, gaze still unfocused and bleary. He didn't seem to be aware of where he was. Dracus was just about to frantically call for Demiera when Edmund blinked at him and said in disbelief, "Pete?"

Dracus blinked. "What? No—"

"Peter?" Edmund sobbed desperately, blinking repeatedly.

Dracus was at loss for what to do, feeling small and powerless before the cruelty his king had been made to suffer. He wetted his lips and cautiously took a small step forward. In a quivering voice, he managed, "Edmund, I'm sorry. He isn't—"

"—here," Edmund finished, sighing as his muddled vision cleared; with a nod of his head, he silently apologised to Dracus. Edmund settled against the head of the bed, wincing at his shoulder when it protested against the movement. Seeing that Edmund was much more composed, Dracus took a seat once more, eyeing his king closely. He was pallid and seemed sicker than before somehow. His eyes were downcast, staring at the fingers he was toying with in trepidation. His expression showed defeat and weariness. It was as if his ever-playful spirit had been diminished, replaced by a new grievous and fearful one.

Edmund tremulously glanced down at his left foot which had been propped up on a pillow, wrapped in warm bandages, effectively hiding the grotesque sight of his broken foot. Dracus suddenly heard the sounds of crunch that had made Queen Lucy cry two days ago. He gave himself a shake, determined to be strong for the sovereigns he had sworn fidelity to, burying his own fears and sorrow and hurt deep into a dusty corner of his heart he sought never to explore.

He sighed and swallowed, raising his head to look at Edmund. Then he whispered softly, "Are you alright?"

Edmund shook his head and Dracus could almost see his lips upturned in a grave smile. Then in a surprisingly steady voice, Edmund replied, "No."

Dracus was a little bemused. Had Edmund smirked sarcastically and scowled at his injuries before giving the answer in an irate voice, Dracus would have found himself reassured and amused and his heart lightened. Had he shot him a pained look and then unsuccessfully tried to hide it with a smile, Dracus would have had to repress tears. But now, hearing his calm voice give him a negative answer, Dracus could make nothing of it.

Then as Edmund began fiddling with the covers, Dracus sighed and asked quietly, "What happened?

Edmund let go of the sheets, closing his eyes. Fisting his hands, he took calming breaths, bringing the shaking to a stop. Furiously wiping his eyes, Edmund croaked, "There was a girl…"And immediately he trailed off, half-stifled sobs escaping him.

Dracus, suppressing his own emotions, said softly, "I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened."

"You can't help me at all, Dracus," Edmund said, turning away from him. His tone wasn't unkind, or accusing. He said it as if he was merely stating a fact. And the cool and placid voice made Dracus suddenly uncomfortable.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed on, "I can't if you don't talk to me."

Edmund released two long breaths, shivering now. He then turned, tears gleaming white in his eyes. "I killed her."

The words caught Dracus off guard. Nonplussed, he said, "What? Killed whom?"

"I don't know how it happened. I was there one moment and then I-I wasn't. I don't remember how…" Edmund raised his head again. "She didn't want to leave, Dracus! She said she had come to terms with her life. That the Tarkan—Serkan—was going to take care of her brother. She tried to kill me. I remember the knife but after that…" He swallowed. "I had to fight my way out. The guard—"

"He was the one that stabbed you?" Dracus interrupted, remembering his previous oath to ensure justice to the one who caused his king so much agony.

"Yes. He's dead," Edmund said.

Dracus untensed, abstaining himself from letting his anger rise. "How did you get out?"

At that, Edmund smiled weakly (Dracus smiled inwardly), "Areesh put Feroictum in the men's drinks."

"Feroictum," Dracus rubbed his temples, jogging his memory. His head snapped up. "The drug Alitia gave you?"

Edmund nodded. "Yes."

"Poison is not an appropriate gift, you know," Dracus commented when another small smile touched Edmund's lips.

"It's not poison!" Edmund protested vehemently.

Dracus couldn't help but give a watery chuckle, feeling the tension subside. But before Dracus could argue with a playful remark, Edmund abruptly screwed his eyes shut, flinching away as if the air had burned him. His shoulders tensed and his face reflected pain. Dracus's brows knitted together and he stood, beginning slowly towards Edmund who sat shuddering on the bed, frozen, looking terrified.

"Edmund? What is it?" he asked gently, slowing his steps further.

"No! Stay away!" Edmund exclaimed, flinching more violently this time, his eyes still shut. He ducked his head as his hands flew to his ears.

Dracus froze firmly in his place.

Seconds ticked by and Edmund's breathing became shallower, hands leaving his ears, eyes flickering open. Swallowing hard, he said, "I need to—I just need to rest."

With that, Edmund laid down again, pulling up the covers.

Dracus, realising he wasn't wanted anymore, decided to leave. He was at the door when Edmund said from behind, "Dracus?"

"Yes?" he asked, whipping around.

Edmund licked his lips nervously. "Don't tell Lucy about what happened. Not yet."

Dracus, understanding, only nodded.

~o~

"Ed?" Lucy rose from her chair when Edmund began turning restlessly on the bed, muttering indifferent words.

And then, he let out a fearful wail. "No! Please!"

"Edmund!" Lucy exclaimed, by her brother's side, slowly reaching her hands towards him.

"Don't! Let me go! Peter!"

Shaking him roughly by his good shoulder, Lucy shouted, "Edmund, please! Wake up! Wake up, Ed!"

And immediately, Edmund's eyes flew open. With a sharp gasp, he jolted upright on the bed, flinching away from Lucy's hand as if she was made of fire. Lucy, startled, pulled back her hand, curling it into a fist, her shoulders tensing.

Edmund blinked his bleary eyes at her, gasping erratically. His misty vision cleared and he asked almost incredulously, "Lucy?"

"I'm here," she tried, sitting on the bed, wearing a small, gentle smile. "Bad dream?" she asked.

Edmund was silent.

"Ed?" she prompted.

But Edmund clearly had no intention of replying. With a gulp, he turned to face the window, lightly coughing into his sleeve. He was staring at the moon, shimmering beautifully in the dark sky, surrounded by small clusters of stars. Edmund, without wrenching his eyes from the large moon, picked a pillow and crushed it to his chest.

Oh, Ed, what happened to you? Lucy thought helplessly. She warily placed her hand on his and gave it a squeeze. Edmund clearly repressed a flinch. "Edmund?" she whispered, withdrawing her hand.

Edmund swallowed but said nothing.

"Ed, please, won't you talk to me?"

He only clutched to the pillow more tightly. A red patch suddenly appeared on her brother's shoulder. Lucy gasped as she stood.

"Oh, Ed, your shoulder's bleeding again. I'll get Demiera." When Edmund remained quiet, she sighed. "Edmund, you're going to make yourself ill like this, please—"

Edmund looked at her through narrowed eyes, and before Lucy could even smile to see her brother at least interacting with her, Edmund grumbled irritably, "Perhaps you haven't noticed already, Lucy. But in my current condition, I'd sincerely appreciate it if you did not comment about my deteriorating health."

Lucy frowned. "But you never care about your own—"

"Oh, are you saying I'm incapable of self-love?"

"No!" Lucy said. "Only that I've never seen you concerned about yourself?"

Edmund scowled. "Are you saying being concerned about one's self is bad?"

"No, just that this isn't how you naturally act and—"

"Are you calling me selfish now?" Edmund interrupted.

"Ed, stop it," Lucy reprimanded gently. "You know you're only trying to elude the questions. And it's—"

"Working, yes, it is," Edmund mumbled.

"No."

"No? What was it? Did I answer too fast?" The next string of sentences was too indistinctly murmured to understand.

"Ed!"

"What?" Edmund said, blinking twice.

"You're not succeeding in passively telling me off," Lucy said. "You need to talk about what's bothering you."

Edmund turned away again. "I'm not Peter and you're definitely not Susan."

"Hey!" Lucy would have smacked his arm but the sight of blood threatened to make her stomach turn again. She sighed, frustrated now. "Ed, I know," she cooed softly. "I understand," she continued, placing her hand on his, smiling that he didn't flinch this time.

But he shook her off. "You don't understand, Lu."

"I do," Lucy insisted. "I know your last time in Calormen wasn't exactly…pleasant." Edmund edged away and Lucy inwardly winced. "And that the…memories are now…troubling you. But unless you talk to me, I can't help you. Please, Ed."

"No," Edmund replied immediately. "No. Just no."

"You can imagine I'm Peter," Lucy offered, silently hoping to amuse him. "Even though my hair is lustier than his, I think—"

"No."

She sighed, irate now. "Ed, really—"

"You should leave," he said, lying down on his side, continuing to gaze out of the window.

"Eddie—"

"That's not my name. And I said, you should leave."

"Ed!"

"Leave!" he barked.

Lucy flinched, refraining herself from spilling any tears. She swallowed. "Alright. I'll just send in Demiera."

Steeling herself further, she took slow steps towards the door. Then, she turned and tried for one final time, "Ed?"

He was as silent as the moonlight hitting the marble floor. Lucy sighed and turned to leave.

The door closed promptly behind her.

And Edmund wept.

~o~

Edmund bolted upright, forehead slick with sweat drops, lungs struggling to suck in enough air. He wiped away the sweat with the bottom of his palm and wearily tried to calm himself. It took three deep breaths and the cold touch of Vera's hilt to finally slow his racing heart.

It was worse this time. He could actually feel it, as if he was back in the monster's grasp, wondering when Arman would strike him again.

He adjusted the bandage on his shoulder a little, wincing. Demiera had told her that the potion she had given him—it tasted bitter, like sand—would help his muscles to regrow. Regrow. Sighing, he leaned against the head of the bed.

"You killed her!"

He bit back a sob, trying to push aside the memory. He failed. Swallowing, he repressed a shudder, and blinked. What was her name? he asked himself. What was her name? What was—

Oh, dear Aslan, he didn't even remember her name! He could never even apologize to her, had never even thought to. Why couldn't he just be strong? With the past plaguing his dreams and reality, would he ever rise above the river of guilt and ever-growing fear that he was drowning in? Would he never truly be freed of the torture he had been made to endure so many seasons ago? Would he ever be able to redeem himself? But after what he had done?

"Ed?"

He tried to hide under the covers and feign sleep, but it was too late.

"I know you're awake, Ed."

He sighed, picking himself off the bed again. Settling against the head, he turned to his little sister.

She looked exhausted. Her eyelids were drooping slightly and for the first time in a long time, Lucy's gentle glow and cheer had subsided. She held a tray in her hand and the sweet smell of its contents was making Edmund's mouth water. Only now did he realise how very hungry he was.

She placed the tray on the table beside the bed, and the fresh toast caught his eye immediately.

"You need to eat. Here, I'll—" she said, a hand reaching for the tray.

"No, there's nothing wrong with my right arm," he argued, lifting up the tray from the table, and almost pouring the boiling milk over his chest. But, at last, the tray found its place on his lap without incident. He took a mouthful of the toast.

"Are you sure you're alright, Ed? I mean, last night you were…" she trailed off and Edmund looked up at her with his brows raised up. "It's nothing. It's just…you were—you were calling for Peter."

Edmund wished she hadn't said that. He didn't need to be reminded of the hollowness in his chest. He looked down at the tray, ignoring her. She, however, persisted.

"Please, Edmund, we can't help you if you don't tell us what happened. Who did this to you, Ed? What happened?" Edmund merely kept eating, never looking up at her. She sighed. "I wrote to Peter last night."

At that, Edmund looked up, eyes hopeful. "He—he's coming?"

Lucy smiled, nodding.

Edmund turned away again, putting the tray on the bed. "You shouldn't have—he isn't supposed to—but—"

"I know," Lucy soothed, taking him into an embrace. Edmund didn't protest. "It's okay, Ed, We're here. We're all here." Edmund breathed a "yes" into her hair, nodding, blinking back the tears. Peter was coming. He was coming. Suddenly, he didn't feel empty anymore.

"I couldn't take it! I couldn't take it, Lu!" he sobbed.

"I know, Ed." She pulled back, smiling at him kindly. "Are you ready to tell me what happened yet?"

Edmund sniffed. Lucy was his sister. She had exhausted herself trying to take care of him, and had been there for him. And he had done little more than ignore her for the past two days. She deserved to know. He took a deep breath.

And he told her everything.

To be continued...

Author's note: Please do review if you're still here and are reading. Also, I say, with absolute guilt, that it might take me a long time to update again, perhaps even until March. It is because I've been thinking about taking a break from Fanfiction . net, and writing in genera. But please don't give up on the story even if I disappear for a while. Because I will come back.

Sincerely, thank you.